“My dear boy,” said Lady Carey, “you may be sure of this, that the smart Parisians would have found a way out of this difficulty before now. But at any rate, they never would have taken it au serieux, as you are doing; for they are too punctilious on the question of good taste, and more than anything fear ridicule!”
CHAPTER XIII
A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion). There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape, made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility. The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting.
Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum, so well known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work. Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the dilettante in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more beholden to each other for liberal cheques, and introductions into Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more antiquated than the Tatler or Spectator of Georgian civilisation. There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had, a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next novel.
The hall was full, but not over-crowded. The Parliamentarians and many of the members in the Upper House still kept away in the country, where, unconsciously, they did some good work in the resuscitation of rural life. It was remarkable what the so-called leading classes could do now that the greatest incentive to snobbery had been torn from their backs. But Danford had always prophesied as much to his pupil.
Groups were forming in the spacious hall; in one corner were Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey and Montagu Vane; whilst in one of the large bow windows overlooking the garden was Hornsby, feverishly expounding some State paradox to Lord Mowbray and a few more ex-club men. Men came in, bowed to each other—even when they did not recognise each other—for politeness and courtesy had been found to be the best policy; women lay down on large couches carved in the walls, talking gaily to one another, without any superciliousness. Simplicity and graciousness was the order of the day. Many said that they could not do otherwise than be natural: “It is by force that we are simple, not by taste.” But never mind what caused this transformation, the point at least was gained: very often the scoffer who hurls a stone at a new edifice, in course of time sees his very weapon help to build that which he intended to destroy. That is the irony of Fate.
“You will never convince me that this kind of democracy can last,” said Mrs Archibald to Danford, as the latter accompanied Lionel. “I think it is most infra dig. of our Royal Family to forget who they are and to lose the little bit of prestige which they possessed. The lowest urchin in the street looked up to our Royalty. Do you believe anything good can come of their vulgarising themselves as they do?”
“It was quite natural that the lower classes should have looked up to their rulers,” replied Dan, “for they had, for centuries, told them to do so. As you know, madam, the power of gross credulity is great in the British nation, therefore they will only believe you to be their equals when you repeatedly tell it to them.”
“I always thought, Mr Danford”—Vane’s voice was pitched unusually high—“that you were cut out for a missionary, and possessed the necessary gifts to set right all social wrongs.”
“My dear Mr Vane,” replied the buffoon, “there often is a gospel wrapped up in a howling joke. My long experience at the Tivoli and other Music Halls taught me my Catechism more exhaustively than my early attendance at Sunday Schools.”